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I royally fucked up the wrap party. There might be a picture circulating of Valeria and me together. Wyatt lost his job because he helped set Valeria and me up. He may never forgive me for that. I didn’t get my job.

Romy got a meeting. Romy got a meeting, tried to convince me not to have sex with Valeria, and kissed me. I have no idea how she feels about the kiss, but she didn’t go after me. I don’t know if she was supposed to come after me or if I was supposed to stay. If I was supposed to stay, I royally fucked that one up too.

Valeria and I had sex, even though it wasn’t what I expected—what I convinced myself it had to be.

Valeria admitted that her team closets her. That she hates italmost as much as she hates her team.

I look down at the eggs. Four eggs in a bowl. It doesn’t mean anything, but it’s a shot I would use if someone decided to make a biopic about me. I add the milk and whisk.

God, Romy. Should I have seen that kiss coming? Before we pulled away, I remember thinking how right it felt to be with her like that. I felt calm, cared for, understood, exhilarated. Even now, my stomach tugs at the thought of the sweet taste of her lips, the pressure she held my face with, the heat of our legs touching. It felt too easy, somehow. Friends, real platonic friends, shouldn’t be able to kiss like that that easily.

Where along the path of our friendship did Romy stop seeing us as platonic? When did she decide she even wanted to kiss me? Sure, our friendship has always been so different from any other platonic relationship I’ve ever had. I never had a friendship as deep, consistent, and tender as ours. I never had friendships where I couldn’t go an hour without taking a photo of something or finding a meme I just knew I had to send to them. Friendships where I missed them every time they went on a family vacation. Friendships where we’d snuggle up and share a heating pad and watch reality T.V. when our periods synced up. Where we’d have full-on conversations while the other was in the bath and go lingerie shopping together and actively discuss each other’s kinks and jokingly try to seduce each other based on those kinks—

My cheeks burn. Our friendship hasn’t been platonic for so fucking long.

Yet I was still so shocked by the kiss. I left her.

Valeria comes down the stairs, Eustace in her arms, and raises her brows as she inspects my cooking scene. The eggs are almost ready.

“You cook?” she asks.

I smile. “Yep. Look at what we could’ve been.”

She hangs on to the countertop, her eyes looking around, alighting on everything but me. “I think you’re making the right decision, even though my gay lizard brain is kind of mad aboutit.”

I serve her the eggs. She dumps organic dog food and preprepared white-meat chicken into a dish for Eustace. We sit around her glass breakfast nook like this is the most normal thing in the world.

“So we’re platonic now?” I ask.

Valeria leans back in her chair. “There will certainly be an attempt at that, yes.”

I push the food around my plate. “So…we weren’t, like, official.”

“No.” She sighs. “But this photo will be, once you’re ready.”

I smile. “Let’s do it.”

But an hour later, I’m shaking with nerves.

Valeria agreed to this, I remind myself. Valeria agreed to this. We discussed the composition together and everything. Still, sitting at her house, adjusting the lighting in the living room we had sex in, I can’t help but feel jittery for her.

“Jesus, Luna, if you’re gonna be this stressed out, we can make you a coming-out post too,” Valeria jokes as she strokes Eustace, whose body is also shaking.

“Please don’t mention my coming out.” I take a deep breath. I’ll process how having gay sex hasn’t really improved that situation another time. It’s hot in here, but Valeria’s not sweating. “Are you ready?”

She smiles. “Completely.”

The idea is simple. Valeria isn’t just going to remain closeted while she promotes her queer indie film. She wants to be able to be her authentic self. Even if that means posting nonprofessional-grade coming-out posts to her god-knows-how-many fans without anyone’s permission. This post is not about me or my future. Valeria’s done a lot to help me, and I want to do what I can for her.

If Steven et al. don’t freak out, she’ll keep them. If not, she’ll leave. They are going to have to respect her decisions and accept her for who she is if they want to remain on her team.

Even though Valeria’s not shaking or sweating, I know she’s nervous. Anyone would be in her position.

She settles onto the couch, slings one leg over the armrest. She’s wearing makeup, but only enough to sharpen her features. And she has Eustace on her lap, chilling. Not chilling, really. Quivering and unhappy, a classic Chihuahua. We’re utilizing this huge decorative mirror she has in her living room in order to show off the pièce de résistance: a pink baseball cap worn backward—a lesbian must-have look. The mirror picks up the words In Dog Years I’m Gay written on the back of the hat.

“Are you sure about Eustace?” I ask as I adjust the lens.

“Once a year, I stop being Eustace’s emotional support dog and he becomes mine. This is one of those times.”